


Salt

by syrupwit



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Older Dib (Invader Zim), Secret Santa, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Mornings can be awkward.Written for city-creek in a Discord Secret Santa exchange.
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 230





	Salt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [city-creek](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=city-creek).



> Happy Holidays, city-creek / SinCity! I hope that you enjoy this!
> 
> Please note that Dib is here supposed to be in his early twenties or thereabouts.

Dib is accustomed to waking up in unusual situations. He’s camped out in abandoned houses, haunted forests, storied ghost towns, ill-kept graveyards, top-secret government facilities, and more than a handful of space stations, and had panic attacks in each and every one. This, however, might be the strangest morning he’s faced yet.

Light crawls through the windows, pale in the television glare. The air hangs thick with a sweet, faintly metallic scent. Dib’s whole body aches. The carpet beneath his back is hard, the blankets tangled around his naked body just this side of too hot. Each movement seems to reveal some new bruise or sore spot. When he licks his lips, he tastes dried blood and salty mangoes.

Highlights of the previous evening play on a tape in his head. He tries to block them out and concentrate on the familiar pipes twisting across the ceiling, but he keeps having to double back as his eyes trace the pipes, unable to tell start from end. 

The lump of bedding beside him stirs.

“GIR?” Zim’s voice is scratchy, tired. The low hum emitted by his PAK sharpens into a whine, cut with booting-up noises.

“Uh, no,” says Dib. He fixes his gaze to the side while Zim rolls out of the bedding and shuffles upright. His peripheral vision still catches him stretching. Does Zim realize he’s naked, or…? He shuts his eyes. He waits.

“Ah,” says Zim comprehendingly. There is a minute of heavy silence. Dib prepares to meet his doom.

It does not come. Instead, Dib is assailed by tiny alien hands plucking at the blankets. Zim elbows Dib in the kidney, hits and grumbles until he scoots over. He curls up next to Dib, soaking in the heat left by his body, and throws a possessive arm over his chest. His antennae brush Dib’s chin.

“That tickles,” Dib complains before he can stop himself. His heart is beating way too fast.

Zim snuggles closer to him, docile. “Mm.” 

This is so fucking weird. Maybe if Dib goes to sleep again, he’ll wake up and it will all have been a dream. The kind of dream that he has to deliberately repress, but whatever. He’s had over a decade of practice with those.

He tries to sleep, an effort soon proven futile. He’s still too warm, his skin is itchy, Zim’s stupid antennae are still tickling him, and… is the PAK supposed to sound like a remixed dial-up Internet connection? No wonder Zim doesn’t sleep normally, if that thing is constantly going off.

Zim notices his fidgeting. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“What?” Zim repeats, and clambers out of the blankets to seat himself on Dib’s middle. He leans down, hands planted on Dib’s chest, and scrutinizes Dib’s face.

“Are you unsatisfied, human?” His tone holds only contempt, but his gaze lingers on Dib’s mouth in a way that’s borderline lascivious. “You had Zim many times last night. Or don’t you remember?”

Truth be told, Dib’s been trying not to think about it. He’s been half-hard since he awoke, taunted every so often into full hardness by the scent in the air and Zim’s presence at his side. Not that he’s had much experience for comparison, but it seems like he should be completely wrung out; somehow, though, he just wants more. And with the way Zim’s straddling his waist, even through the blankets he can feel—

Zim scooches his tiny little alien ass backwards, and Dib freaks out. His hands fly automatically to hold Zim’s hips in place. He doesn’t mean to grip so hard, but he’s pretty sure the noise Zim bites back isn’t from pain. 

“I remember.” His voice comes out far breathier than he means it to. 

Zim’s shifting on top of him, avoiding his eyes. His face is flushed. 

“What about you, huh?” Dib tries. “You had _me_ even more times, and you’re still horny for me. What’s up with that?”

“Zim has none of these—horns—”

“Come on, space boy, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Filthy,” Zim hisses, but he lets out a low moan when Dib rubs between his legs. Oh fuck, he’s leaking. His weird tentacle dick is already poking out. That had been dramatic, last night, when the whole thing finally emerged from Zim’s body. Dib had been too overwhelmed then to fully appreciate the experience of getting it on with a giant prehensile blade of kelp, but in the harsh light of day he finds the prospect of a repeat encounter fascinating.

Eyes on Zim’s, he pinches the tip of the tentacle between his forefinger and thumb. Zim makes a small, high sound and looks away, bites his lip. Dib strokes lightly, trying to tease more of the tentacle out, but Zim catches his wrist.

"No. Not like that."

"How do you want it, then?"

Zim guides Dib’s hand back, inside the… whatever it is he has there. Dib hadn’t asked questions. He’s pretty familiar with this body part now, despite its strangeness, the subtle and not-so-subtle things that make it inhuman; he closes his eyes against a rush of heightened arousal at the slickness he finds.

“You want to…?” he asks, but Zim is already scrabbling at the blankets, exposing Dib’s lower half. He positions himself, knocks away Dib’s steadying hand, and sinks down in one impatient motion.

They just stare at each other for a second, totally still, and then Zim makes an annoyed noise and starts moving.

“I thought the heat was supposed to only last one night,” Dib gasps, as Zim lifts himself up and down with the jerky, single-minded determination of a man winding up a jammed antique music box that he paid entirely too much money for and was promised would work.

“Clearly your horrible stink-body proved inadequate to meet Zim’s needs.”

“Can you try not to insult me while you’re riding me within an inch of my life?”

“Ha!” Zim crows, and picks up speed. “You beg for your pitiful existence? Victory for Zim!”

“That was—that was an _idiom,_ jackass, you’re not actually—” Dib is silenced when Zim shoves his tongue in his mouth. It tastes like mangoes and iron. He digs his blunt nails into Zim’s back and holds on.

“I fucking hate you,” he says weakly, once Zim releases him and they’re both panting for breath. The tempo has slowed, but he can’t seem to stop moving, pushing his hips against Zim’s in a dizzying pattern. “You’re my least favorite person. Please get off already, come on Zim, just come on my cock so we can—”

Zim kisses Dib again when he comes, stifling his increasingly incoherent pleas. Yeah, that’s right; he came begging for Zim to get off on him. Dib would be embarrassed, but the funny little whimper Zim makes when _he_ comes is way weirder, so he isn’t. Zim slumps on top of him afterwards, oddly heavy despite his size. He tucks his face into Dib’s neck, the tips of his antennae curved toward Dib’s forehead in a gesture that Dib suspects may be instinctual.

The moment evaporates when Zim rolls off him and starts bitching about the mess. Dib, whose entire torso is tacky with their spending, has little sympathy. They squabble until Dib takes one of the blankets to wipe himself off and ends up cleaning Zim instead. This somehow leads to making out again—making out with _Zim,_ how did Dib get here—and the prospect of another round is looming when Dib’s stomach rumbles.

“What is that?” Zim stops gnawing Dib’s ear off to investigate.

“I guess I’m hungry,” says Dib, bright red. “All that… activity.”

Zim, head near Dib’s hip, shoots him an assessing look. “You have been exerting yourself more than usual.”

“Zim, shut up.”

“No, you shut up.” Then, thoughtfully: “There might be some biscuits left in the kitchen.”

“I thought GIR wasn’t allowed to make biscuits? Or, like, speak of them, at all?”

Zim shrugs. “It came up again. We reevaluated things. Do you want to eat or not?”

“Uhh,” Dib hedges, and Zim snaps, “I promise the biscuits are edible.”

“I mean, if you say so.” When it comes to things that look like human food, Zim isn’t great at judging edibility.

“If you HATE them, I’ll have GIR make you something else.” Zim grabs Dib’s arm, tries to haul him up. “Now come on, we need to nourish you so you can continue serving Zim.”

“Is that what I’m doing,” Dib mutters, but he gets to his feet and follows Zim to the kitchen.

Dib is sore, exhausted, and uncomfortably sticky. He still doesn’t know what’s going on with the whole heat thing or when it will end. The light streaming through the kitchen window is too bright, and Zim bangs the cabinets too loudly as he searches for the biscuits. Somehow, though, Dib feels… content.

This may be the strangest morning that he’s had so far, but it’s certainly not the worst.


End file.
